


It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

by nessundorma345 (wastrelwoods)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: But this was a gift, I know absolutely fuck-all about Supernatural, M/M, Multi, There are no bassoons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastrelwoods/pseuds/nessundorma345
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 God-Awful Christmas Gifts to Get your Significant Other, and 1 That's Pretty Okay. </p><p>Featuring Tony Stark's food kinks, hideous Christmas sweaters, Tuesday, toothbrushes, shock blankets, and at least one bassoon. Mostly not all at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrTrumpet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrTrumpet/gifts).



1\. Something They Like

"I swear to God, I could eat mint chip ice cream until my stomach explodes." Tony moans over the spoon in his mouth. Loki looks up at that, a calculating look on his face. "Oh, no, Rudolph, don't even ruin the moment by telling me exactly how many gallons that would take, I know the way your mind works."

Loki looks back down, a little crestfallen. Tony spoons another half a pint of ice cream into his mouth because he is apparently completely immune to brain-freeze, and has to resist the urge to purr. Loki's lips taste like mint chip, incidentally, but he's not about to mention that to the arrogant bastard, regardless of the possible ravishing that might follow.

He's so absorbed in his dessert-for-breakfast-because-he-locked-himself-in-the-lab-forty-hours-ago-and-forgot-food that he doesn't see the secretive planning smile cross Loki's face, not even when Bruce knocks timidly and the supervillain vanishes again and leaves Tony to explain away the very visible hickey(s) on his neck.

They don't really celebrate Christmas, the Avengers, unless celebrating involves varied degrees of intoxication and accidental publicity stunts--which Pepper says doesn't count as celebratory if it happens every night anyway. So of course, he'd almost completely forgotten the date until Steve mentions offhandedly that they have a situation in Hoboken and they probably should have been there half an hour ago.

"Steeeeve," he whines plaintively, "It's Christmas, don't we get a day offff? Like besides the Fourth, because I don't remember you standing up to fight that giant squid last summer."

"That was different," he defends, lilting his shield from its usual spot by the door.

"How was that different? I still have sucker marks on my arm!" 

Steve rolls his eyes. "It's Loki this time. Suit up." He pulls the spangled cowl over his bright blue eyes with an air of finality. 

Tony suits up.

By the time they get there, only the aftermath remains, and it is horrifying enough to make even Tasha raise a thin eyebrow. Bruce doesn't even bother to hulk out, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose resignedly.

"Ice cream," curses Clint, just low enough for the group to hear. "He just turned a street of cars into motherfucking ice cream. I mean why not, like, pudding or something? I thought he was into pudding?"

"It was a phase," says Tony absentmindedly. The group ignores him, branching out to discern the extent of the damage. He lands with a squelch atop something that used to be a Bentley and is now a mound of frozen dessert. He gets a sinking feeling that he knows the exact flavor, too.

Scarcely three feet from the apparent epicenter is the note, pinned to the sweet creamy street with a spoon. Tony raises the faceplate to read, feeling a headache coming on.

_Approximately 28 gallons. Do try not to overeat. Merry Christmas, Stark._

2\. Something They Hate

John meant to ask what to get him for Christmas, but there was never really a good time, because Molly gets there first. Its a moot point, though, because when he hears the word Christmas bandied about, Sherlock retreats into his bedroom and absolutely refuses to come out for anything less than an eight-point-seven. John and Mrs Hudson take shifts, standing outside the door and knocking until their hands go numb or the violin drowns them out completely. John leaves takeaway containers of cold vindaloo by the threshold of the bolted door. Sometimes they disappear, and sometimes they don't.

"Sherlock!" Day 15, and John's voice is beginning to give out. No response. He huffs and walks away, muttering darkly as he sinks into the armchair. John's eyes bore twin holes in the door. If you looked closely enough, you could see smoke. "Sherlock, you can't stay in there forever!" he barks.

There comes a muffled reply of "Wrong!" from behind the door, and John bites his lip in annoyance.

"Did you actually progress past the age of five, then?" he murmurs half to himself, staring alternatively between the empty takeaway and the clock. John sighs, then stands with a new determination. "Sherlock!"

"Sod off!" the consulting detective shoots back. 

"Sherlock, there's a case."

Pause. "Eight point five?"

"Nine, Sherlock, nine! Come on!"

The door opens just a crack. Sherlock peeks around the jamb like a small child spying on the adults. He's wrapped in his blue robe, hair in a tangled mess atop his head. His eyes have that vague and otherworldly look that they always do when he's thinking hard. "You're lying." he pouts, and makes to close the door again, but John sticks his foot in.

"WhatdoyouwantforChristmas?" he blurts. Sherlock stares, uncomprehending. "I mean...what, should I...since people get each other gifts, and you...yeah. Presents."

Blink. His eyes narrow. "What?"

"Jesus. Sorry. I was asking whether-"

"No. Don't. Really, honestly don't. Get something nice for that girl...what's her name?"

"Nadine. No, Mary. Her name is Mary." John kicks himself mentally for the slip-up. 

"Ah, yes, the boring teacher's friend. Get something nice for her, or something. I'm spending Christmas in here this year." He smiles coldly.

"But-" Sherlock tosses another vindaloo container his way, then slams the door. "Right." 

A case does bring him round, in the end, and they're chasing a lawyer with a million-dollar tie pin through Brixton in the snow when Christmas Eve turns to Day. It all ends nicely, with a record low of three gunshots and only one potentially fatal. The door to 221B creaks shut, and the two haggard men stumble over the threshold. "The red patches on the elbows were characteristic of eczema, but if she were allergic to cats...elegant. Superb. No one would have known, had it not been for the fingernails!" Sherlock finishes proudly.

"I don't understand why that means you have to keep them in the icebox, Sherlock dear." Mrs Hudson interjects. "Parcel for you, there you are." 

He takes it, turning the box over in his hands. Eyes narrow, mouth curls in distress. He sniffs the wrapping carefully, running a finger across the inked address.  Without looking, he rips the paper open to draw out a horrendous sweater at least three sizes too large for him. Red, green, and yellow, shot through with white threads, it depicts an alarming number of reindeer embellished with red sequins. Sherlock stands, straightens, and fixes John with a look that can only be described as ultimate judgement.

"Erm." the doctor shuffles, easing towards the stair, "Happy Christmas?"

 

3\. Something You Think They Need 

Actually, it doesn't occur to Sam that Christmas fell on a Tuesday this year until Dean ends up crushed under the overly verdant and vengeful Christmas tree. Needless to say, it puts a bit of a damper on the cheery spirit of things. 

On an entirely unrelated note, Cas gives him a rubber duck. Sam really doesn't know what conclusion he's supposed to draw from that. Especially with the enclosed note that says, "I saw this and thought of you."

Yeah. Definitely not the best year, but then what else can you expect from a Tuesday?

4\. Something They Actually Need

Sherlock puts a fair bit of thought into his gifts, let it never be said otherwise. It's just that...well. John is...complicated. Apparently it's considered quite normal to know what your flatmate/colleague/dubious friend wants for Christmas, and Sherlock knows perfectly well what that is.

Alright, so maybe he doesn't. But that doesn't mean that he can't give it his best try. John is forgiving. John is only the slightest bit suspicious when Sherlock tails him for the day to try and deduce what he wants. 

"Sherlock! Will you bugger off and let me go Christmas shopping in peace?" John snaps after catching him lurking behind the shelves again.

Plan B, then. Mycroft is on the phone with the Prime Minister of Azerbaijan, judging by the sour expression on his face and the dusky accent of the man on the other end. But Sherlock doesn't let that stop him, because this is important. So he calls in a favor and the conversation disconnects. Mycroft's expression grows delightfully sourer. 

"You want me to tell you what your own flatmate wants for Christmas?"

"Oh, come on, it's not that difficult. I'm sure you know him better than I do!"

"Sherlock, nobody knows him better than you do." Mycroft snaps. That cannot be true, but Sherlock leaves him to his call, since he's indicating stress by turning over a pen between his fingers as though he would like nothing better than to drive it into Sherlock's subclavian artery. 

Plan C. Lestrade just shrugs and mumbles, "Not my division." 

Plan D. Harry Watson is not home. Harry Watson is never home. Sherlock makes a mental note to tell John that she's patched things up with Clara for the moment. 

Plans E and F end similarly. Mrs Hudson suggests he make some biscuits. Sherlock reminds her of the Dreaded Salad Incident of Last May, and she blanches and reconsiders. 

Molly giggles nervously. "How would I know, Sherlock? Just...get him something nice. Something he needs." 

Now, there's a thought. He kisses her on the cheek in gratitude and excitement, watching her face color. Something he needs must be synonymous with something he wants. 

This is somewhat easier for Sherlock to discern, despite the fact that John used to occupy a bedsit with a gun, a laptop, and a jacket; and his habits have not changed. It only takes a day or two more of espionage before Sherlock has his long-awaited answer. 

John is somewhat less overflowing with gratitude than anticipated. Odd. Sherlock knows that he's thought it out in a thoroughly logical manner. It makes no sense that John is frowning right now.

He closes his eyes for a long moment and then opens them again, apparently frozen in disbelief and shock because of the sheer, unparalleled _practicality_ of the object in his hand. 

"It's a toothbrush." he says, quite simply. 

Sherlock raises a questioning eyebrow. "Yes." 

"Why?" 

He rolls his eyes, tapping his foot impatiently. "Well, firstly and chiefly, because it is traditional to receive gifts from significant people in your life during this season, secondly because I am obliquely hinting that your hygiene in the area of dentistry leaves much to be desired, and thirdly and lastly because I seem to recall using the current model in an experiment last week, the details of which are statistically likely to earn me a punch in the jaw."

John turns the toothbrush over in his hand, nodding slightly. "Fair enough."

5\. Nothing

It really doesn't matter. 

It shouldn't bother him at all, shouldn't even occur to him. It's happened before, to say the least. And yet. It feels like a pinch, a sting, a little hollowness somewhere in his chest, a little lump somewhere in his throat. 

But it shouldn't matter at all, so the question becomes, why? 

Perhaps, he thinks, because he had allowed himself to hope. To belong. To anticipate, even. Which is ridiculous, since he's never once celebrated Christmas in his long life. And still he felt a tiny thrill of excitement when the twenty-fourth turned to the twenty-fifth.

Perhaps it was the ridiculous sentiment attached. It sounded pleasant enough, as traditions go. A gentle reminder of what matters to you. Certainly a passing over of the tradition does not signify that he does not _matter_. And if it did, then it is no great disappointment. 

So it's nothing, really. But he still cannot hide the bitter smile when the twenty-fifth becomes the twenty-sixth, and then the twenty-seventh.

Tony notices, of course. Damn him and his constant _noticing_. "Lokes. Did I do something wrong?"

It's ridiculous. Stark hasn't been in the room for five seconds, and he asks such a question. "No." he replies curtly, because the little lump in his throat makes it hard to talk. He hasn't done anything wrong. Far from it. Ridiculous. 

But he still notices, and his eyes widen and that small worry line creases between his eyebrows. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry. I didn't realize it would bother you so much. Shit." 

"It doesn't bother me," he lies, and it's so good that he almost believes it. 

"No, I'm sorry. I should have...I dunno, given you a coffee mug or something."

"Tony, I don't even drink coffee."

"Yes, you do, don't even try to deny it. Or a waffle iron. Or bunny slippers, or--"

"Or S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence?" he adds.

"Nah, considered it, but figured you could pretty much find out anything you wanted to know without my help. Fuck, I was even going to make you an omelette." Tony taps his fingers against the counter angrily.

Loki just raises an eyebrow, deciding at length that he really doesn't need to know. The tightness in his chest clears a little when he pulls out his own gift, tossing it over. "There's always next year." 

Tony catches the apple, confusion etched into his features. Loki smiles, "Or the year after that. Or the next one." His eyes widen as the realization sinks in. "Take all the time you need."

1\. You

_Part the First:_

The entire thing was Mrs Hudson's fault. Because if she hadn't hung up the mistletoe, then Molly wouldn't have kissed Sherlock. 

And if Molly hadn't kissed him, Sherlock might not have realized that the mysterious murder weapon in their latest case was lipstick. And without the ensuing pandemonium, John wouldn't have run out without his Browning. 

Which is to say, of course, that the chances he would have found himself held at gunpoint on a bridge would have been greatly lessened. Without that chain of events, Sherlock would not have found it necessary to nearly take a bullet for John and plunge unconscious into the Thames.

And then John would not have had approximately five seconds to knee the gunman in the nads, jump off the bridge, and lug his flat-mate's dead weight fifty feet to safety. And he would not have been found in the somewhat compromising position of performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on Sherlock Holmes in front of about half of the Yard. Sherlock wasn't much help, either, since he regained consciousness halfway through and apparently took the whole thing as a confession of John's eternal love and devotion rather than a life-saving maneuver. 

So you see, it was clearly all Mrs Hudson's fault.

"Damn that mistletoe." John whispered sleepily, curling the shock blanket he and the consulting detective shared tighter around himself. Sherlock made no reply, having long since fallen asleep on John's shoulder. 

_Part the Second:_

New Year's Eve is a Tuesday, and New Year's Day will be a Tuesday, too.

But Dean survives this one. Sam suggests that he make it his resolution for the year. Dean says that his resolution is to become Freddie Mercury or a poledancer, but then by that time they're both drunk off their asses and he passes out in the backseat of The Impala.

Cas shows up at about five seconds to midnight, and Sam--being inebriated and happy because TUESDAY-- counts down and kisses him, which is hilarious because he has no idea what's going on and wonderful because he is an _angel_.

Sam never does find out the reasoning behind the rubber duck.

_Part the Third:_

The Avengers may not celebrate Christmas, but goddamn if their New Year's celebrations don't impress. Beyond the obvious showboating and alcohol consumption and the mistletoe that Clint hung up in the tower and the Helicarrier and S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ and pretty much everywhere else, they actually managed to gate-crash the Times Square ceremonies. 

Actually, that was mostly Tony and Loki. But hey, he was still on an immortality high.

A hush falls over the crowd just before the ball drops. This is mainly because Loki has placed a silencing spell on them in order to better savor the moment. He stands hand in hand with Tony, hovering just above the crowd, the golden glint of their rings reflecting the city lights, and smiles.

Three. Two. One. Tony lets out a whoop of delight, and thousands of voices join in, fresh with new beginnings and infinite possibilities. When they kiss, each marks that Tony's lips still taste like apples and life and Loki's are better than mint chip ice cream could ever hope to be.

They stand there as the snow falls softly over Times Square, and they welcome in this new year, as they will a hundred thousand more.

**Author's Note:**

> (P.S. Zero got laid too.)
> 
> (P.P.S. I lied about the bassoon.)
> 
> (P.P.P.S. MERRY CHRISTMAS!)


End file.
